


Kiss or Tell

by dvske



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, First Kiss, Gambling, Gen, Pool & Billiards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You get only one prize if you win. Her secret or her kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss or Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [runicmagitek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/gifts).



> Runi's got me fixated on first moments and milestones between Red and Boxer, and this concept's been on my brain for a while now. Glad it's finally taken shape. Thank you for the initial spark, my friend~

There’s this woman. Something of a fixture at _Jan’s_. A living legend, if tall tales are to be believed. Sharp, her heels biting into the oak wood floor with resounding clicks, her very presence arresting. Fluid in her movements, effortless as she circles the pool table with cue in hand and a curious twitch at her fingertips. Red gleaming under molten light, her gown swaying with each confident stroke. Ever focused as she hits her mark once again.

3-ball, corner pocket.

Just a pair of solids left, the 1-ball and lucky number Eight. Another pair for stripes. A close game, but she’s been winning from the start.

She always does.

Onlookers clap and cheer their encouragement as the redhead moves about with a slight bounce in her step. And you can’t help but smirk when Tennegan sucks his teeth and starts scrutinizing the table more intently than necessary. Far more concentration than what he first afforded the match. Even has his sleeves rolled back.

He runs his finger against the golden brooch he’s placed as his bet. Gift from one of his listeners, handmade and engraved with his initials, pinned to his shirt. A quill, soon to be lost if he’s not careful.

It’s his first game against her, Miss Kiss or Tell, a game he assumed he’d win.

Kiss or Tell. Name of the game. Name of her act. She’s quite the act, quite the puzzle indeed. Can’t speak a single word, though she signs and gestures well enough for other regulars to comprehend. Close friends with several patrons; closer friends with the bartender, old Henter who rarely smiles but always has one to spare for her. He knows her order by heart. A slice of Sea Monster, a side of curly fries, and one Long Island to get the buzz going before her challengers approach. Clear rules, finely printed on the cream-colored cards she hands out:

Only one game per person, per night.

You _must_ wager something precious. No money. Nothing life or death.

Challengers get to break.

If you lose, you give up your wager without question.

If you win, you get your choice of a kiss or a secret. Her most close-guarded one, at that. Intimate, a temptation. One, in all her time here, that she’s never shared.

Most people, they’re eager for the kiss.

Many ask for both.

She just smiles every time and gestures towards the table.

 _“There’s gotta be a catch,”_ Tennegan says when you first explain.

_“No catch. That’s it.”_

_“And she’s never lost?”_

_“Never.”_

_“For how long?”_

_“Three years, now.”_

And he scoffs in disbelief. _“That’s impossible.”_

_“Have at it and see.”_

They always take the bait, and she’s more than happy to oblige. She makes a sport of it all, not quite smug, not quite haughty. Competitive, yes, but respectful from beginning to end. She plays as their equal, as though each opponent could be her undoing. Some nights, they’ve come dangerously close.

You’ve never seen her ruffled.

You’ve come to _Jan’s_ long enough to pay witness to her winning streak, always a spectator from the bar. An endless stream of people of ages, all genders (though mostly men). The cocky and arrogant, the timid and reverent. Amateurs and pros and all those in between. People have wagered everything from their favorite clothes and writing utensils to family trinkets and heirlooms. A woman once bet her late husband’s wedding ring. Another once wagered his cat.

You’ve even seen someone offer a dark secret of his own, one he’d whispered in the woman’s ear shortly after the match concluded and the crowd’s attention turned elsewhere. Such a solemn look on his face as he confessed, a heavier one on hers. Her hands gripped his as she pulled him off to the corner of the bar, then she’d wrapped him in a firm hug. He sank into it with trembling shoulders.

Always wondered about that one…

And now there’s Tennegan, resigned but at peace as she pockets the 1-ball. He’s accepted the outcome, unfazed even when his next shot misses its target by a fraction. He chuckles when she starts humming, _hm-hm_ , almost musical. She sets her sights on lucky number Eight. Takes her final shot, makes it.

In a breath, it’s over.

“Nice game, Tenn,” you call from the bar, lifting your glass in mock celebration.

He rolls his eyes, gives a dismissive wave.

It’s a shame, really, since he came so close. But fair is fair, even when a one-of-a-kind brooch is at stake.

Wave’s good-natured enough about it in the end, carefully unpinning the piece from his shirt and placing it in the woman’s outstretched hand. He curls her fingers around it before bending down and brushing his lips against her knuckles. Then it’s her turn to laugh.

_Smooth, Wave._

But he’s pleased with himself, soon returning to the bar in high spirits despite his loss. He’s still eyeing the redhead, now hopping up to sit on the edge of the pool table and examine her new prize. “Has to be a trick to it. Never lost in three years. Simply unheard of.”

You grin, nudge what’s left of his drink in his direction. “Now you’re officially part of the club. Cheers.”

“And what’s she got from you?”

“Nothing.”

He pauses mid-sip. “Nothing?”

“Never played.”

He narrows his eyes. “Not once?”

“Nope.”

“Well now you _have_ to.”

“Just to lose?”

“Just because.”

Is that not the very spirit of a gamble, of challenging the odds? Is that not, perhaps, why she’s created this game to begin with? You can’t be sure, but neither can you deny the allure of at least one match against an undefeated champion. Maybe you’ll get lucky. It’s a game, after all.

“Just this once,” you utter, downing the last of your drink before slipping from your seat.

“Make it a good one.”

And it’s as if she senses your approach the moment he spoke, because she immediately looks up and meets your gaze. Matches it, her expression warm, her new brooch pinned proudly to her dress. You start wondering what to bet, what precious item you could possibly give to catch her interest. They say what you’re willing to sacrifice speaks volumes of your character. So what to offer?

She leans forward when you finally reach the table, watches as you pick up one of the cues propped along its edge.

“Up for one more round?”

A smile, small and playful. You swallow with her watching you so intently. Not just her, but various onlookers scattered about the room. Conversations continue to float overhead, background noise and music, but it seems to fade the longer you spend with her eyes locked with yours. Something fond in her gaze, something setting your heart alight.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. “Would you…accept a kiss as a wager?”

She arches a brow, amused by your audacity—

“Would be my first.”

—and you see it, a hint of shock, a twinkle in those blues. She’s sizes you up, sees honesty buried in your expression. Her smile broadens as you clear your throat, bite at your lips. Silly to offer, sillier to think she’ll accept.

Yet she slides off the table, grabs the other cue while giving your arm a light squeeze. She nods as if to say, _Well what are we waiting for?_

You hear Tennegan give a low, drawn out whistle from behind.

Your heart’s pounding.

A kiss if you lose. Hardly seems like much at stake. But what’s more precious than someone’s first kiss? What’s more gratifying than having the honor to take it?

Just a game, and yet…

You feel the weight of the world as you know it slipping away in that instant. It’s a cozy bar, close-knit and brimming with friendly faces, but space itself seems to warp, stretch. It’s different, being dead center like this, in the sting of spotlight and the midst of every expectant stare. Different with the cue in hand, tall and sleek, slender and foreign. And the champ herself accepting your whim.

She hands you the chalk, a bubblegum blue cube, and winks before plucking the balls from their pockets. Starts arranging them in their pyramid frame, ready for a fresh start.

You chalk your tip, trying to ignore the burning of your palms.

A kiss if you lose—and you _will_ lose—and now you’re reconsidering your gamble.

Just a game.

Just for fun.

Just because.

_Just…_

A dull sound, her setting the cue ball in its place with that same soft grin. Then she moves aside for you to take your shot, trailing fingers along the table’s edge as she does. Your turn.

_Just play._

So you play.

Your first shot is strong and fast, a jumble of clashing colors, satisfying clicks and clacks. The 6-ball, a deep jade, sinks into the left side pocket. Solids.

She surveys her stripes and the position of the cue ball, her attention honed in on nothing but. That’s the beauty of her play, the mark of her skill. All else is tuned out completely, just like that. All else save the table, the stakes, her opponent. Her stage, her tune, her setting the pace for this dance.

She twists and bends herself with each stoke, and you in turn. You can never quite make those impossible angles she spots so quickly. Calculations play out in her mind in mere seconds before she acts, precise and with none of your second guessing.

You focus on the game, or try. More so, you focus on her. Especially on her. All these years spent admiring from afar, but up close she’s fire. Your gaze lingers on every curve and movement. The way she flutters, the way her dress shimmers. The way her bangs dip in her face; her huff of breath and puff of lips when she blows them out of the way. The tender manner in which she holds her cue whenever you’re up for your turn. To keep herself grounded, perhaps. And every so often, watching you with the same level of fascination.

_What’s the secret?_

The driving question, the root of it all. What _is_ her secret, the one thing she’s so determined not to tell? Or maybe she’s actually eager to, simply waiting for the worthiest soul to stumble her way. How will she tell it, when the time comes? Written out, like so many of her conversations? Maybe spoken in the language she knows best, the language of hands, lithe and practiced. And what reassurance does she have that her secret won’t get leaked the moment it’s out? What then? Would the games end for good?

It could be something simple. The secret to her success. The story of her muteness. The story of her origin, unclear as it is. Could be anything. Everything you’ve ever wondered, ever wanted to ask.

Could be a lot of things, but as usual it’s out of grasp.

You lose, of course.

You had a good streak going, neck to neck much like Tennegan, but your aim jumped the 8-ball by mistake.

“Oh, sore sport!” Tennegan laughs from the bar, lifting up his glass in your honor. You blow out a breath as you pick the 8-ball off the floor. “No need to pout.”

“Who’s pouting?”

You are, just a bit.

That’s before you feel her hand on your shoulder, a feather touch that pulls your attention back to her. It’s the closest she’s been to you all night, the most certain she’s looked. Then she’s holding your chin between her fingers, pulling you in. You lean down so easily, eyes slipping shut, unsure what to do with your hands. Beyond the surrounding wolf whistles, beyond the cries of disbelief—(“Oi, Red, _he_ gets one?”)—you wonder if she can hear the hammering in your chest? It’s just…

A kiss.

On the cheek.

Warmth there, soft and sweet and lingering for a brief moment. It takes even longer for you to realize she’s purposefully avoided your lips. Longer, still, for you to come out of your daze. Amusement lights her features. She presses her hand against your cheek. Consolation, in a sense. People in the background are laughing, and you can’t keep yours from bubbling up despite yourself.

One last wink, one pat on the cheek, then she’s off. Back to her end of the bar, done with games for the night and ready for another round of drinks.

You’re slow getting back to Tennegan who’s grinning ear to ear. “Well?”

It’s a first kiss of sorts, unexpected. You touch the lipstick brand on your cheek, stare at the ruby smudge on your fingers with something akin to awe. The 8-ball still rests in your other hand. “Does that count as a loss or a prize?”

“Better than anyone else has ever gotten, I’m sure.”

True.

“You’re blushing, chap.”

“The hell I am.”

You are. Just a bit.


End file.
